7000 miles, 5 weeks, one rider, one bike, one Europe.
Discussion
I've only recently got back from a trip around Europe, so will be updating this as and when I get the chance! Hope you enjoy.
Day 0
I’ve been riding bikes since May 2013 but even after only a year of riding, living both in the North and the South, I had started to tire of riding the same old routes on the same old rutted roads, weekend after weekend. Not that it wasn’t fun, I just felt like there was so much more to biking than wobbling from café to café on the odd sunny summer weekend like all the others. I also had a niggling feeling that while I had done a small amount of travelling, there was so much of Europe I hadn’t seen.
So, in 2014, I idly started to think about where I would want to go if I ever had the time and means to travel. “It would be nice to see the Colosseum”. “I’d like to do the Stelvio Pass”. “The Pyrenees are meant to be cool”. That was more or less the depth of my thinking and planning right up until May 2016. Then I found myself with a couple of months off before starting my new job. Knowing it was now or never, I committed myself with an outward Dover > Calais ferry ticket for 2nd June, returning on 7th July. Five weeks would be enough to see everything, right?
In terms of focus, the trip was going to be a 50:50 split between riding great roads and exploring great cities, avoiding motorways unless absolutely necessary. So I’d stay in hostels in the cities, and camp out in the countryside. Simples. My choice of steed? My trusty 2007 Suzuki SV650s I’d had since 2014. Only written off once. A great bike in its own right, fun and flickable, but neither fast, comfortable nor particularly suited to touring. Perfect!
This was to be a budget trip. Riding my poor battered bike around Europe spending all available funds on petrol, with the occasional bit left over to fund things like food and shelter. No fancy GPS, Go Pro, costly luggage or 5* hotels, just me, the bike, a map and Europe’s roads. Just like it should be. How quaint.
By now I had a fair idea of the route. Liverpool, Dover, Calais, Paris, Le Mans, Tours, Bordeaux, Bilbao, Picos de Europa, Lisbon, Madrid, Andorra, Millau, Nice, Monaco, Genoa, Pisa, Rome, Florence, Venice, as many Alpine passes as I could get my hands on, Milan, Geneva, Zurich, the Nuburgring, Brussels, Paris, Calais, Dover, Liverpool. In the end, Zurich-Brussels didn’t happen, but more on that later.
How it looked
Not wanting to be underprepared, I started to plan the trip the week before. This consisted of buying everything needed for a full service on the bike (fluids, filters, pads, plugs), a puncture repair kit and a map. That was more or less all that was required. You’d think reading internet fora you would need a support lorry to carry everything required, but as far as I was (and still am) concerned, all you need is a well-prepared bike, clothes and tools. In the event, I only had the latter two and still survived. Luggage consisted of things I already had lying around: a tank bag (Aldi), large rucksack (Lidl) and dry bag (Aldi… there’s a theme here…). Well, I did say it would be on the cheap.
Everything I ordered arrived in time, so I started to do the service on the bike two days before leaving. I managed to do the oil and air filters, as well as a full oil change before getting bored and meeting a friend for cake. Yum. The next day, reality hit. Reality being that my ferry was at 2pm the following day, and I needed to be there an hour before. And the ferry terminal was five hours away. And the bike wasn’t ready. And I hadn’t packed.
All of the above focused the mind.
No idea what I’m doing
Accordingly, I got on with the task of changing the brake pads. At this point I realised that I had never attempted this before and had no idea what I was doing. However, a bit of internet research reassured me that it was straightforward enough. Then I was met with the reassuring sight of brake calipers that had looked as if they hadn’t been touched in five years, with suitably seized pistons. After some choice words, blind panic, and thoughts about whether the ferry ticket was refundable, I managed in an “unlimited numbers of apes will eventually write Shakespeare” type of way to reconstruct the front brakes. Then realised the system was now devoid of fluid and I had no braking power. Fortunately I had some spare, so whacked that in, and hey presto! New pads and even better lever firmness than before! Hurrah! I did a thing! Unfortunately, I had also spotted two alarming lumps of metal sticking out of the middle of the front tyre. Well, no sign of it deflating, and no time to change it, so better just take a gamble on it!
It was now 10pm and the prospect of sleep was rapidly diminishing before my eyes. Dinner and an interesting documentary about Alan Shearer (the extent of my interest in football) later, it was midnight and I still had to put most of the bike back together.
Day 0
I’ve been riding bikes since May 2013 but even after only a year of riding, living both in the North and the South, I had started to tire of riding the same old routes on the same old rutted roads, weekend after weekend. Not that it wasn’t fun, I just felt like there was so much more to biking than wobbling from café to café on the odd sunny summer weekend like all the others. I also had a niggling feeling that while I had done a small amount of travelling, there was so much of Europe I hadn’t seen.
So, in 2014, I idly started to think about where I would want to go if I ever had the time and means to travel. “It would be nice to see the Colosseum”. “I’d like to do the Stelvio Pass”. “The Pyrenees are meant to be cool”. That was more or less the depth of my thinking and planning right up until May 2016. Then I found myself with a couple of months off before starting my new job. Knowing it was now or never, I committed myself with an outward Dover > Calais ferry ticket for 2nd June, returning on 7th July. Five weeks would be enough to see everything, right?
In terms of focus, the trip was going to be a 50:50 split between riding great roads and exploring great cities, avoiding motorways unless absolutely necessary. So I’d stay in hostels in the cities, and camp out in the countryside. Simples. My choice of steed? My trusty 2007 Suzuki SV650s I’d had since 2014. Only written off once. A great bike in its own right, fun and flickable, but neither fast, comfortable nor particularly suited to touring. Perfect!
This was to be a budget trip. Riding my poor battered bike around Europe spending all available funds on petrol, with the occasional bit left over to fund things like food and shelter. No fancy GPS, Go Pro, costly luggage or 5* hotels, just me, the bike, a map and Europe’s roads. Just like it should be. How quaint.
By now I had a fair idea of the route. Liverpool, Dover, Calais, Paris, Le Mans, Tours, Bordeaux, Bilbao, Picos de Europa, Lisbon, Madrid, Andorra, Millau, Nice, Monaco, Genoa, Pisa, Rome, Florence, Venice, as many Alpine passes as I could get my hands on, Milan, Geneva, Zurich, the Nuburgring, Brussels, Paris, Calais, Dover, Liverpool. In the end, Zurich-Brussels didn’t happen, but more on that later.
How it looked
Not wanting to be underprepared, I started to plan the trip the week before. This consisted of buying everything needed for a full service on the bike (fluids, filters, pads, plugs), a puncture repair kit and a map. That was more or less all that was required. You’d think reading internet fora you would need a support lorry to carry everything required, but as far as I was (and still am) concerned, all you need is a well-prepared bike, clothes and tools. In the event, I only had the latter two and still survived. Luggage consisted of things I already had lying around: a tank bag (Aldi), large rucksack (Lidl) and dry bag (Aldi… there’s a theme here…). Well, I did say it would be on the cheap.
Everything I ordered arrived in time, so I started to do the service on the bike two days before leaving. I managed to do the oil and air filters, as well as a full oil change before getting bored and meeting a friend for cake. Yum. The next day, reality hit. Reality being that my ferry was at 2pm the following day, and I needed to be there an hour before. And the ferry terminal was five hours away. And the bike wasn’t ready. And I hadn’t packed.
All of the above focused the mind.
No idea what I’m doing
Accordingly, I got on with the task of changing the brake pads. At this point I realised that I had never attempted this before and had no idea what I was doing. However, a bit of internet research reassured me that it was straightforward enough. Then I was met with the reassuring sight of brake calipers that had looked as if they hadn’t been touched in five years, with suitably seized pistons. After some choice words, blind panic, and thoughts about whether the ferry ticket was refundable, I managed in an “unlimited numbers of apes will eventually write Shakespeare” type of way to reconstruct the front brakes. Then realised the system was now devoid of fluid and I had no braking power. Fortunately I had some spare, so whacked that in, and hey presto! New pads and even better lever firmness than before! Hurrah! I did a thing! Unfortunately, I had also spotted two alarming lumps of metal sticking out of the middle of the front tyre. Well, no sign of it deflating, and no time to change it, so better just take a gamble on it!
It was now 10pm and the prospect of sleep was rapidly diminishing before my eyes. Dinner and an interesting documentary about Alan Shearer (the extent of my interest in football) later, it was midnight and I still had to put most of the bike back together.
Thanks for the kind words.
Day 1
After eventually constructing the bike in the dark, I took it out for a test ride to check that I hadn’t been entirely incompetent with the brakes. Somehow I returned in one piece, after waking up most of the neighbourhood. Sorry. I commenced packing at 2am (by this point I was beyond caring and actually slowing down in a resigned sort of way).
The stuff of nightmares
Miraculously, this was somehow completed just as the birds started singing at 4:30. Then I had an hour of furiously trying to find a way of assembling five weeks’ worth of junk in three unsuitable bags, on a bike entirely unwilling for donkey duty. Another hour later and it was somehow all perched on the rear seat without falling off, whilst I had the luxury of three inches of bum space. Lovely.
After a shower, I decided that breakdown cover and travel insurance were both a good idea, so, wallet notably lighter, I was ready to leave, two hours later than planned, at 8am. Farewells said, I hit the road with the sleepy commuters.
And we’re off!
“Pah!” I thought, “I’ve had no sleep and am more alive than any of you!”. This lasted until Birmingham. To a non-biker, it may be unconceivable to think that you could actually fall asleep on a motorbike on a motorway, travelling at speed. It is in fact very conceivable. Fortunately it only happened a few times and very rarely was it particularly dangerous. What was dangerous, however, was the pressure that my hastily assembled luggage was placing on areas of my anatomy, pinning me to the tank. No time to stop, I was going to miss my ferry! Who needs children anyway! The pain could be accurately described as indescribable by Stafford, and had resulted in total numbness by Oxford. I tried mental distraction techniques. They did not work. It just hurt, a lot. Never mind, all part of the adventure, eh?
Finally, thankfully, I arrived in Dover on time. Unfortunately, my ferry was delayed by one hour. Well, at least I didn’t miss it.
Boarding a ferry is always fun on a bike. It’s always raining (in Dover, at least) and the metal flooring always looks like an ice rink, but at least you get to go on first, and the bike sounds awesome reverberating around the deck. I’m such a child. After strapping the bike down, I made my way to the family lounge, hoping for a nice quiet crossing and a chance to sleep. Instead, what I got was a very chatty Brummie biker and a gaggle of Polish school children, intent on throwing things at each other. All part of the adventure…
The Brummie was actually quite a laugh so we had a nice chat for a while until I was literally comatose. Far too soon, we arrived in Calais to brilliant sunshine. Or driving wind and rain. You pick the most likely option.
Waterproofs being at the bottom of my most inaccessible bag, I decided to MTFU and try to out-ride the rain. (This was unsuccessful). All part of the adventure. Off the ferry and onto French roads. Oh my. This just got real. I am on the continent, on the wrong side of the road, on my own, for the next five weeks, in the driving rain, in an unfamiliar town, with no idea where to go and no route or accommodation planned. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to have done that in advance? Oh well, no point dwelling on the past. Time to crack on!
After a few unintentional circuits of Calais, charming town though it is, I stop to check my map, and hunt out a suitably squiggly road heading South out of Calais vaguely in the direction of Amiens. That’ll do. I ride for as far as I dare, but notice that my riding is starting to worsen due to the increasing tiredness. Time to find somewhere for the night! I follow two signs for “Camping”. One leads to a dead end, whilst the other leads to a very, very shut and very empty looking campsite. All part of the adventure, remember? After eyeing up a very tempting patch of grass off a side road, I finally find a most beautiful sight! Not a campsite, no, but a metal shack off a main D road. Hurrah! That will do. Set the bar low and you can’t be disappointed.
By this point I am utterly exhausted, soaking wet and really couldn’t care less where I sleep. So I get both bike and tent under the shack, pitching the tent to the bike. Good job everything was there as it was the first time the tent had been out of the packaging. After dinner of an apple and two packets of hula hoops, a curious local who I had noticed pass half an hour earlier returns, to politely ask WTF I am doing. I explain and he points out that while not strictly the best place to camp, it is a hunters’ lodge where they convene before and after hunts, so I wouldn’t be bothering anyone overnight. That would explain the abundance of feathers and red stains, then. Suitably cheered, I head to bed at 6pm.
Five star accommodation
Room with a view
At this point, thoughts such as “What on earth am I doing?” and “Why on earth am I doing whatever it is I am doing?” cross my mind. Nevertheless, I finally get to sleep at around about 8pm (my body having chosen bedtime as a good time to finally wake up) and sleep well until 8:15. Back to sleep at 8:30. Back awake at 8.45. And repeat until 7am. Wind and rain, along with a French-constructed shack, conspired to make sleep impossible even with earplugs. All part of the adventure! I did manage to get some sort of sleep after 7am, however, so the next day, I was ready to hit the roads and start the first proper day of the adventure!
Day 1
After eventually constructing the bike in the dark, I took it out for a test ride to check that I hadn’t been entirely incompetent with the brakes. Somehow I returned in one piece, after waking up most of the neighbourhood. Sorry. I commenced packing at 2am (by this point I was beyond caring and actually slowing down in a resigned sort of way).
The stuff of nightmares
Miraculously, this was somehow completed just as the birds started singing at 4:30. Then I had an hour of furiously trying to find a way of assembling five weeks’ worth of junk in three unsuitable bags, on a bike entirely unwilling for donkey duty. Another hour later and it was somehow all perched on the rear seat without falling off, whilst I had the luxury of three inches of bum space. Lovely.
After a shower, I decided that breakdown cover and travel insurance were both a good idea, so, wallet notably lighter, I was ready to leave, two hours later than planned, at 8am. Farewells said, I hit the road with the sleepy commuters.
And we’re off!
“Pah!” I thought, “I’ve had no sleep and am more alive than any of you!”. This lasted until Birmingham. To a non-biker, it may be unconceivable to think that you could actually fall asleep on a motorbike on a motorway, travelling at speed. It is in fact very conceivable. Fortunately it only happened a few times and very rarely was it particularly dangerous. What was dangerous, however, was the pressure that my hastily assembled luggage was placing on areas of my anatomy, pinning me to the tank. No time to stop, I was going to miss my ferry! Who needs children anyway! The pain could be accurately described as indescribable by Stafford, and had resulted in total numbness by Oxford. I tried mental distraction techniques. They did not work. It just hurt, a lot. Never mind, all part of the adventure, eh?
Finally, thankfully, I arrived in Dover on time. Unfortunately, my ferry was delayed by one hour. Well, at least I didn’t miss it.
Boarding a ferry is always fun on a bike. It’s always raining (in Dover, at least) and the metal flooring always looks like an ice rink, but at least you get to go on first, and the bike sounds awesome reverberating around the deck. I’m such a child. After strapping the bike down, I made my way to the family lounge, hoping for a nice quiet crossing and a chance to sleep. Instead, what I got was a very chatty Brummie biker and a gaggle of Polish school children, intent on throwing things at each other. All part of the adventure…
The Brummie was actually quite a laugh so we had a nice chat for a while until I was literally comatose. Far too soon, we arrived in Calais to brilliant sunshine. Or driving wind and rain. You pick the most likely option.
Waterproofs being at the bottom of my most inaccessible bag, I decided to MTFU and try to out-ride the rain. (This was unsuccessful). All part of the adventure. Off the ferry and onto French roads. Oh my. This just got real. I am on the continent, on the wrong side of the road, on my own, for the next five weeks, in the driving rain, in an unfamiliar town, with no idea where to go and no route or accommodation planned. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to have done that in advance? Oh well, no point dwelling on the past. Time to crack on!
After a few unintentional circuits of Calais, charming town though it is, I stop to check my map, and hunt out a suitably squiggly road heading South out of Calais vaguely in the direction of Amiens. That’ll do. I ride for as far as I dare, but notice that my riding is starting to worsen due to the increasing tiredness. Time to find somewhere for the night! I follow two signs for “Camping”. One leads to a dead end, whilst the other leads to a very, very shut and very empty looking campsite. All part of the adventure, remember? After eyeing up a very tempting patch of grass off a side road, I finally find a most beautiful sight! Not a campsite, no, but a metal shack off a main D road. Hurrah! That will do. Set the bar low and you can’t be disappointed.
By this point I am utterly exhausted, soaking wet and really couldn’t care less where I sleep. So I get both bike and tent under the shack, pitching the tent to the bike. Good job everything was there as it was the first time the tent had been out of the packaging. After dinner of an apple and two packets of hula hoops, a curious local who I had noticed pass half an hour earlier returns, to politely ask WTF I am doing. I explain and he points out that while not strictly the best place to camp, it is a hunters’ lodge where they convene before and after hunts, so I wouldn’t be bothering anyone overnight. That would explain the abundance of feathers and red stains, then. Suitably cheered, I head to bed at 6pm.
Five star accommodation
Room with a view
At this point, thoughts such as “What on earth am I doing?” and “Why on earth am I doing whatever it is I am doing?” cross my mind. Nevertheless, I finally get to sleep at around about 8pm (my body having chosen bedtime as a good time to finally wake up) and sleep well until 8:15. Back to sleep at 8:30. Back awake at 8.45. And repeat until 7am. Wind and rain, along with a French-constructed shack, conspired to make sleep impossible even with earplugs. All part of the adventure! I did manage to get some sort of sleep after 7am, however, so the next day, I was ready to hit the roads and start the first proper day of the adventure!
Day 2
I set off on my first full day with a view to getting to just outside Paris. Despite a late start, it looked possible on the map to get there before sunset, just taking D and N roads. I would soon learn that any two points on the map were in reality 3x further apart than they appeared.
The weather had not abated overnight. It was still windy, rainy and miserable. All part of the adventure! I packed up camp, and came up with wayofsecuringmybags v2. Having quickly learned the night before that having a roll mat exposed on the bike in the rain means a wet night’s sleep, I decided to actually try and put it in one of my bags. Clever. Packing and securing the bags in a way that they would not immediately fall off at the first corner took, as on the first day, an inconceivably long amount of time. But eventually I was ready to ride, even wearing waterproofs this time.
I took the D and N roads in the direction of Amiens, which would serve as my mid-afternoon stop. Halfway there it occurs to me that I hadn’t had any water or proper food in 24 hours, so true to form, I pulled over at the first Lidl. On the cheap, remember. It’s quite bizarre going into a supermarket that is 95% familiar, in the same layout as you are used to back home, but nearly all the products are almost but not quite the same. Same chocolate, same fruit juice, but the bread becomes croissants and the French cheese becomes... French cheese. Ok, maybe it’s the same after all.
Five croissants a day
Fully stocked up with carbs and water, I devour them in the car park. God knows what the poor French families were thinking. “Why is that mad, unwashed Englishman devouring a still-packaged sausage in the car park, papa?”. “I don’t know ma cherie, but just keep on walking”. I probably shouldn’t have indulged, but it was fun making eye contact with them as I ate. Some looked genuinely alarmed. Well, the referendum was coming up, so I had to do my best to strengthen diplomatic ties.
Fully refreshed, I made good progress towards Amiens. Although it was still drizzling, the roads were excellent, and some of the views from the hills were possibly stunning, had I been able to see them. When I used to think of northern France, it was always the image of endless flat fields, framed by grey drizzle that came to mind. Ok, it still does. But now I know that there are some areas of real natural beauty there, with the added bonus of great roads! And – take note, Highways Agency/DoT – roads that were in good condition! Not to mention French drivers. In England, come up behind a car doing the speed limit, and you’d be doing well to be noticed after five minutes. In France, they positively launch themselves out of the way to let you pass. Sometimes it isn’t actually all that helpful, but you can’t fault their enthusiasm. It really was noticeable and made riding even more enjoyable and quicker than in England. Another thing that is clearly noticeable is that while the UK and France have similar populations, France is twice as big. The roads are comparatively empty. Even in the drizzle, I was having a blast!
After whizzing through Desvres and Frévent, I finally arrive at Amiens, about six hours behind schedule. A theme that is to continue for the next five weeks.
Deciding that perhaps, on reflection, it would actually be a good idea to look for a campsite before I need to go to bed, I hunt out what is to be the Holy Grail for the trip – free wifi! Eventually, I am forced to go to Quick – a rip off Burger King with no redeeming features. Except for free wifi.
Good parking
That done, as I go to leave Amiens, I spot the cathedral. Then I vaguely recall that it is a world-famous UNESCO World Heritage site. Better take a look then! Then I encountered the only consistent irritation of the trip – what to do with my bags when wandering around a city. Deciding that I would actually be very impressed if someone could untangle the web of straps and bungee cords in the hour I would take, and truthfully savouring the thought of not having to tie them up again, I left the bags on the bike and explored.
It’s big, bold and beautiful. Inconceivable to think that it was completed in 1270. From the outside, the sheer size and attention to detail was stunning. Then you go inside, and it's just as impressive. Then a quick wander around the grounds and an explore of the charming environs before jumping back on the bike.
Colourful
Having by now found a campsite, I head in the direction of Beauvais. Paris would have to wait. More good, smooth roads, and then I arrive at the campsite. Deserted. I wander in, paddling the bike to avoid an embarrassing moment. The Metzeler M7RRs, great tyres though they are, are not designed for riding on slick wet grass. Nor for touring for that matter, but more on that later. Eventually, la guardienne comes out to see who’s making all the noise. I pull out my best puss in boots face to guarantee a pitch (it’s deserted but I’m taking no chances). She says to park up “là bas” and await her husband’s arrival.
Duly following my orders, I head over to the driest looking part of the field. And immediately get stuck. Hiding in the long grass was a massive wooden log, which my exhaust manifold is now beached on. I’m wet, tired and impatient to shower. And now stuck. This does not please me. But fortunately, her husband, a much more amiable character, soon arrives and lends me a hand. Then he points out that no-one else is staying on the site (I’d noticed), and that in fact, they have a spare... dry... room... with fixed roof... that I could spend the night in. Ye gods, all my Christmases had come at once! It was no more than an empty common room, but that made no odds to me. Result.
Luxury
He left me to it, and I enjoyed my first shower in 36 hours, and it was wonderful. Then I settled down for a nice early night. Except for the fact that was a flock of geese outside the window making a racket. And a donkey. Two donkeys. No, that looks like three donkeys right outside the window as well. I didn’t even ask.
Why
Around midnight they went quiet, and I enjoyed the first warm, dry sleep of the trip.
I set off on my first full day with a view to getting to just outside Paris. Despite a late start, it looked possible on the map to get there before sunset, just taking D and N roads. I would soon learn that any two points on the map were in reality 3x further apart than they appeared.
The weather had not abated overnight. It was still windy, rainy and miserable. All part of the adventure! I packed up camp, and came up with wayofsecuringmybags v2. Having quickly learned the night before that having a roll mat exposed on the bike in the rain means a wet night’s sleep, I decided to actually try and put it in one of my bags. Clever. Packing and securing the bags in a way that they would not immediately fall off at the first corner took, as on the first day, an inconceivably long amount of time. But eventually I was ready to ride, even wearing waterproofs this time.
I took the D and N roads in the direction of Amiens, which would serve as my mid-afternoon stop. Halfway there it occurs to me that I hadn’t had any water or proper food in 24 hours, so true to form, I pulled over at the first Lidl. On the cheap, remember. It’s quite bizarre going into a supermarket that is 95% familiar, in the same layout as you are used to back home, but nearly all the products are almost but not quite the same. Same chocolate, same fruit juice, but the bread becomes croissants and the French cheese becomes... French cheese. Ok, maybe it’s the same after all.
Five croissants a day
Fully stocked up with carbs and water, I devour them in the car park. God knows what the poor French families were thinking. “Why is that mad, unwashed Englishman devouring a still-packaged sausage in the car park, papa?”. “I don’t know ma cherie, but just keep on walking”. I probably shouldn’t have indulged, but it was fun making eye contact with them as I ate. Some looked genuinely alarmed. Well, the referendum was coming up, so I had to do my best to strengthen diplomatic ties.
Fully refreshed, I made good progress towards Amiens. Although it was still drizzling, the roads were excellent, and some of the views from the hills were possibly stunning, had I been able to see them. When I used to think of northern France, it was always the image of endless flat fields, framed by grey drizzle that came to mind. Ok, it still does. But now I know that there are some areas of real natural beauty there, with the added bonus of great roads! And – take note, Highways Agency/DoT – roads that were in good condition! Not to mention French drivers. In England, come up behind a car doing the speed limit, and you’d be doing well to be noticed after five minutes. In France, they positively launch themselves out of the way to let you pass. Sometimes it isn’t actually all that helpful, but you can’t fault their enthusiasm. It really was noticeable and made riding even more enjoyable and quicker than in England. Another thing that is clearly noticeable is that while the UK and France have similar populations, France is twice as big. The roads are comparatively empty. Even in the drizzle, I was having a blast!
After whizzing through Desvres and Frévent, I finally arrive at Amiens, about six hours behind schedule. A theme that is to continue for the next five weeks.
Deciding that perhaps, on reflection, it would actually be a good idea to look for a campsite before I need to go to bed, I hunt out what is to be the Holy Grail for the trip – free wifi! Eventually, I am forced to go to Quick – a rip off Burger King with no redeeming features. Except for free wifi.
Good parking
That done, as I go to leave Amiens, I spot the cathedral. Then I vaguely recall that it is a world-famous UNESCO World Heritage site. Better take a look then! Then I encountered the only consistent irritation of the trip – what to do with my bags when wandering around a city. Deciding that I would actually be very impressed if someone could untangle the web of straps and bungee cords in the hour I would take, and truthfully savouring the thought of not having to tie them up again, I left the bags on the bike and explored.
It’s big, bold and beautiful. Inconceivable to think that it was completed in 1270. From the outside, the sheer size and attention to detail was stunning. Then you go inside, and it's just as impressive. Then a quick wander around the grounds and an explore of the charming environs before jumping back on the bike.
Colourful
Having by now found a campsite, I head in the direction of Beauvais. Paris would have to wait. More good, smooth roads, and then I arrive at the campsite. Deserted. I wander in, paddling the bike to avoid an embarrassing moment. The Metzeler M7RRs, great tyres though they are, are not designed for riding on slick wet grass. Nor for touring for that matter, but more on that later. Eventually, la guardienne comes out to see who’s making all the noise. I pull out my best puss in boots face to guarantee a pitch (it’s deserted but I’m taking no chances). She says to park up “là bas” and await her husband’s arrival.
Duly following my orders, I head over to the driest looking part of the field. And immediately get stuck. Hiding in the long grass was a massive wooden log, which my exhaust manifold is now beached on. I’m wet, tired and impatient to shower. And now stuck. This does not please me. But fortunately, her husband, a much more amiable character, soon arrives and lends me a hand. Then he points out that no-one else is staying on the site (I’d noticed), and that in fact, they have a spare... dry... room... with fixed roof... that I could spend the night in. Ye gods, all my Christmases had come at once! It was no more than an empty common room, but that made no odds to me. Result.
Luxury
He left me to it, and I enjoyed my first shower in 36 hours, and it was wonderful. Then I settled down for a nice early night. Except for the fact that was a flock of geese outside the window making a racket. And a donkey. Two donkeys. No, that looks like three donkeys right outside the window as well. I didn’t even ask.
Why
Around midnight they went quiet, and I enjoyed the first warm, dry sleep of the trip.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Wednesday 20th July 12:27
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:13
Sincerest apologies to anyone who was actually looking forward to the updates. I have no idea where the last six months have gone. But I promise I will keep updating this at least weekly until it is done! My latest update is below. This is the boring part of the journey, promise it does get better 
Now, to follow hot on the heels of my last post only six months ago. (How on earth does time fly by so quickly?).
Day 3
That night in the deserted campsite common room was one of the best sleeps I have ever had. After what felt like 48 sleepless hours of wet, cold and miserable riding, the concrete floor was suddenly the most divine mattress. Even the braying donkeys couldn’t put me off.
Eventually, I came around to the world at 11am, feeling like a new man, ready for what lay ahead. Energised by a breakfast of a croissant and a full packet of laughing cow fromage, I got on with the first task of the day – scraping the thick, cloying mud off the bike and tyres. After my little off-road excursion the night before, the poor bike was looking rather worse for wear.
Eventually everything was ready, and headed for the road. Back via the muddy field. On my freshly cleaned bike. As I was approaching the tarmac, such was my relief at not getting stuck, I did my best Steve McQueen impression and gave it a handful of celebratory throttle on the grass. The cleanliness of the bike was short-lived, but damn, it was fun.
Time to hit Paris.
Determined to stick to my rule of avoiding motorways, I left the campsite just outside Marseille-en-Beauvaisisis (no apparent connection to ISIS) and headed South-South-East to Paris, via the D roads.
Another quick pit stop for lunch, this time in a Leader Price car park. An upgrade from Lidl, just because I was feeling extra flush. Wild, I know. Just the kind of guy I am.
I stayed on the D roads for as long as possible, as their open, sweeping nature and minimal cameras allows significant progress. Occasionally in the wrong direction. Map reading and note taking was another skill that I was learning “on the job”. But eventually I could avoid the A16 no longer, and submissively followed the signs for Paris.
Having lived in Paris for a year, I was rather looking forward to “coming home”. Unfortunately, “coming home” meant riding through Saint-Denis. That’s the bit of Paris you don’t see in the tourist brochures. That’s the bit of Paris where you really don’t want to stop at red lights. Even on the motorway slip roads, travellers (is that the latest PC term?) fill the spaces in between each lane, knocking on car windows to beg for change. This added an extra, exciting, dimension to filtering.
Naughtily, I had to barge a few tourists out of the way to get this shot
Eventually, I arrive in more familiar surroundings: Place de Clichy, Madeleine, the Champs-Élysées. Not having been back in years, it was quite a homecoming. Having spent a significant proportion of my time in Paris cycling furiously on the vélibs, being on a motorbike was a comparative doddle. The perfect way to get around!
After a cheeky photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe, I find a café with that all-important wifi sticker, and set about planning my route, espresso in hand. After studying the map and harvesting the wifi, I start to wonder how on earth I had planned to get to Le Mans today. This was starting to become a theme.
When in Paris...
Eventually I plot a route out via Versailles in the direction of Le Mans, via Chartres.
Parisians love the Twizzy!
From whichever direction you approach Chartres, you cannot help but notice the unmistakable silhouette of the cathedral. Another oldie, and another UNESCO World Heritage site, it is an incredible example of Gothic architecture. After a quick pit stop to take it in, I hop back on the bike and arrive at the municipal campsite I had found online. Except it’s totally deserted. No sign of life whatsoever. Excellent. Good old France. This was also becoming a theme.
Quite the view
Incredibly imposing building
Right, change of plan! Keep riding in the direction of Le Mans until I find a campsite. Simples! Except, it is already 9pm, sunset is in an hour, and I haven’t seen a single campsite in the last hour of riding. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out.
I keep riding. Riding. And riding. And riding. The sun gets lower. Lower. And lower. And lower.
No campsite. No daylight.
After passing Nogent-le-Rotrou, I decide that it really, really is now sunset, and I really, really should find somewhere to stay. Suitably streetwise after my first night’s experience, I find a long, wide, secluded, grassy track that leads to nowhere. Perfect!
I find a nice patch of grass at a bend in the lane and pitch my tent, just as it goes completely dark. Dark enough that I can see the lights on in the nearby house. Is it really that close? Surely it can’t be.... oh.... yes, yes, I have just pitched my tent on someone’s driveway. An enormous house with a field and lake in their front garden. And I’ve just set up camp on their driveway. Whoops.
Too late to move and repitch, I decide to scout out the lie of the land. As I do so, the homeowner comes out of the front door and I am convinced I am done for. But no, the bloke is just walking his dog, merrily singing away at full volume, oblivious to the fact that there is another bloke pitching his tent on the other side of the trees. His trees.
Well, guess I better just get to bed, hope no-one runs me over, and make a swift exit in the morning before anyone is up!
All part of the adventure!
Now, to follow hot on the heels of my last post only six months ago. (How on earth does time fly by so quickly?).
Day 3
That night in the deserted campsite common room was one of the best sleeps I have ever had. After what felt like 48 sleepless hours of wet, cold and miserable riding, the concrete floor was suddenly the most divine mattress. Even the braying donkeys couldn’t put me off.
Eventually, I came around to the world at 11am, feeling like a new man, ready for what lay ahead. Energised by a breakfast of a croissant and a full packet of laughing cow fromage, I got on with the first task of the day – scraping the thick, cloying mud off the bike and tyres. After my little off-road excursion the night before, the poor bike was looking rather worse for wear.
Eventually everything was ready, and headed for the road. Back via the muddy field. On my freshly cleaned bike. As I was approaching the tarmac, such was my relief at not getting stuck, I did my best Steve McQueen impression and gave it a handful of celebratory throttle on the grass. The cleanliness of the bike was short-lived, but damn, it was fun.
Time to hit Paris.
Determined to stick to my rule of avoiding motorways, I left the campsite just outside Marseille-en-Beauvaisisis (no apparent connection to ISIS) and headed South-South-East to Paris, via the D roads.
Another quick pit stop for lunch, this time in a Leader Price car park. An upgrade from Lidl, just because I was feeling extra flush. Wild, I know. Just the kind of guy I am.
I stayed on the D roads for as long as possible, as their open, sweeping nature and minimal cameras allows significant progress. Occasionally in the wrong direction. Map reading and note taking was another skill that I was learning “on the job”. But eventually I could avoid the A16 no longer, and submissively followed the signs for Paris.
Having lived in Paris for a year, I was rather looking forward to “coming home”. Unfortunately, “coming home” meant riding through Saint-Denis. That’s the bit of Paris you don’t see in the tourist brochures. That’s the bit of Paris where you really don’t want to stop at red lights. Even on the motorway slip roads, travellers (is that the latest PC term?) fill the spaces in between each lane, knocking on car windows to beg for change. This added an extra, exciting, dimension to filtering.
Naughtily, I had to barge a few tourists out of the way to get this shot
Eventually, I arrive in more familiar surroundings: Place de Clichy, Madeleine, the Champs-Élysées. Not having been back in years, it was quite a homecoming. Having spent a significant proportion of my time in Paris cycling furiously on the vélibs, being on a motorbike was a comparative doddle. The perfect way to get around!
After a cheeky photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe, I find a café with that all-important wifi sticker, and set about planning my route, espresso in hand. After studying the map and harvesting the wifi, I start to wonder how on earth I had planned to get to Le Mans today. This was starting to become a theme.
When in Paris...
Eventually I plot a route out via Versailles in the direction of Le Mans, via Chartres.
Parisians love the Twizzy!
From whichever direction you approach Chartres, you cannot help but notice the unmistakable silhouette of the cathedral. Another oldie, and another UNESCO World Heritage site, it is an incredible example of Gothic architecture. After a quick pit stop to take it in, I hop back on the bike and arrive at the municipal campsite I had found online. Except it’s totally deserted. No sign of life whatsoever. Excellent. Good old France. This was also becoming a theme.
Quite the view
Incredibly imposing building
Right, change of plan! Keep riding in the direction of Le Mans until I find a campsite. Simples! Except, it is already 9pm, sunset is in an hour, and I haven’t seen a single campsite in the last hour of riding. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out.
I keep riding. Riding. And riding. And riding. The sun gets lower. Lower. And lower. And lower.
No campsite. No daylight.
After passing Nogent-le-Rotrou, I decide that it really, really is now sunset, and I really, really should find somewhere to stay. Suitably streetwise after my first night’s experience, I find a long, wide, secluded, grassy track that leads to nowhere. Perfect!
I find a nice patch of grass at a bend in the lane and pitch my tent, just as it goes completely dark. Dark enough that I can see the lights on in the nearby house. Is it really that close? Surely it can’t be.... oh.... yes, yes, I have just pitched my tent on someone’s driveway. An enormous house with a field and lake in their front garden. And I’ve just set up camp on their driveway. Whoops.
Too late to move and repitch, I decide to scout out the lie of the land. As I do so, the homeowner comes out of the front door and I am convinced I am done for. But no, the bloke is just walking his dog, merrily singing away at full volume, oblivious to the fact that there is another bloke pitching his tent on the other side of the trees. His trees.
Well, guess I better just get to bed, hope no-one runs me over, and make a swift exit in the morning before anyone is up!
All part of the adventure!
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:12
Day 4
Well, I slept surprisingly well for a trespasser, was up at seven and... GREAT SUCCESS! I was entirely alive, and no-one had run me over or fired at me through the tent with a shotgun, as I had anticipated.
Not eager to push my luck, I hurriedly pack my bags, still a painfully protracted process due to my entirely inadequate luggage and as yet, imperfect technique. Never mind, with the benefit of an early start, I have the whole day ahead of me to make progress.
I head straight for Le Mans. Even forty miles away, the wide open roads with burgundy hard shoulders echo the distinctive layout of the legendary circuit that was my destination. Having spoken to a friend who had lived there, who assured me that there was absolutely nothing of interest in the town itself, I planned to do a whistle stop tour, following the route of the circuit, before heading down to Bordeaux. At least, that had been my intention.
As I follow signs for the Circuit des 24H du Mans, I stop to fuel up. As I come to a stop, I hear that, for once, my bike is far from the loudest vehicle around. From the petrol station, even with earplugs and a helmet on, I can easily hear the distinctive sound of Le Mans Prototypes hammering around the circuit at full chat over a kilometre away. I fill up as quickly as I can, and hop straight back on the bike, heading to the circuit to investigate.
Trying to blend in
It turns out that by pure good fortune, I had happened to turn up on the one single mandatory test day before the races commenced. The only problem being that while I could most certainly hear the cars, bar a few tantalising glimpses in the gaps between fences, there was nowhere to actually watch the action without paying the entry fee. This being a trip on a budget, I determine to find the cheap seats.
Relying on my extensive knowledge of the circuit gleaned entirely from Gran Turismo 4, following the circuit down past the pit straight to the Porsche Curves, I find the perfect spot. At the base of the bridge under the Curves, I spot a gate that had been left ajar, and carpe’d the diem, jumping off the bike and not daring to look back in case the marshals object to my second trespass of the day.
Sneaky sneaky
From my vantage point, I am about two metres from the cars passing through the esses at over 120 mph. Between this and a hospitality ticket in a box over the pit straight, I know which I would choose.
What I'm here for
As well as the LMP cars of Nissan, Porsche, Audi et al, the highlights are the brutally guttural V8 Vantages and the howling Ferrari 458s. But top marks go to the utterly hinged Corvettes, which cause severe discomfort every time they pass, and genuine pain after just five minutes. Accordingly, I stay for ninety minutes, wide-eyed, ears bleeding and loving every minute.
V8, V8, flat six
Eventually, I drag myself away with a great deal of reluctance, after a small amount of my best loud, ignorant Brit Abroad impression to buy myself with the marshal who had justifiably asked that I don’t actually stick my phone over the barriers to get a good shot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--zO-F1A_OA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_-2VUrj3-A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV_nhk8hNP4
Suitably energised, I head towards Tours for a long overdue lunch. I set up camp outside the brasserie on the beautiful Place Jean Jaurès, looking onto the Hôtel de Ville and Palais de Justice. It’s my first proper meal of the trip and a welcome reminder of just how good proper food is. I vow to allow myself one warm meal of the day. After all, it is meant to be some sort of a holiday.
Town hall and court
After a leisurely hour of eating and route planning, I wander around the city centre, taking in the breathtaking 19<sup>th</sup> century architecture.
It is at this point, in full bike gear, that I realise just how warm it has become over the last day. Even just a few hundred miles south of Paris makes all the difference. It’s going to be warm from here on in, and this is just the start.
They are starting to all look the same, but still stunning
After a quick visit to the cathedral, again, beautiful, it’s back on the bike, direction Bordeaux.
I head via Poitiers, but it looks crap, so I don’t stop.
As I blast past Cognac, the sun is out, the roads are almost empty, and I make great progress on a memorable evening of fast riding, pushing all known envelopes on glorious open, smooth, sweeping roads, all the way up to Pons, an incredibly historic walled hilltop town.
Try as I might, it’s hard to arrive quietly in Pons. As you snake your way up round and round to the top of the hill, you are surrounded on the one side by houses, and on the other by a sheer rock face. People hear you coming. A long way away. Rather embarrassing when everybody else is just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday evening.
Eventually, I get to the top of the town, just as the sun is starting to set on a beautiful sight - there is an old keep on the edge of the town square, overlooking the neighbouring countryside. Quite a view to behold. Especially with the sublime Ferrari 456 glinting in the sun.
What a view. Not sure about the translation.
I would have loved to have stayed longer in Pons, but alas, time is ticking, and I have learned from my past mistakes. After soaking up the atmosphere and vitamin D, I follow the path of the Gironde down to Montendre, just north of Bordeaux.
Eventually, I find the campsite, which I had actually managed to research in advance. I am welcomed by a decidedly English sounding host. Ah, everyone is English. Not very authentic. And when I enquire about cost, the bloke behind the reception/bar/restaurant takes his time before unashamedly plucking a figure out of thin air and demanding a fee €25 for the night. For a patch of grass and cold shower. Does he not know that this is a budget trip!? Incredulous, I at least manage to haggle and get a free pint out of the (not so) bargain.
Out for the count after a hard afternoon’s ride, I sleep soundly, all the better for knowing that this time, at least, I am not trespassing.
Well, I slept surprisingly well for a trespasser, was up at seven and... GREAT SUCCESS! I was entirely alive, and no-one had run me over or fired at me through the tent with a shotgun, as I had anticipated.
Not eager to push my luck, I hurriedly pack my bags, still a painfully protracted process due to my entirely inadequate luggage and as yet, imperfect technique. Never mind, with the benefit of an early start, I have the whole day ahead of me to make progress.
I head straight for Le Mans. Even forty miles away, the wide open roads with burgundy hard shoulders echo the distinctive layout of the legendary circuit that was my destination. Having spoken to a friend who had lived there, who assured me that there was absolutely nothing of interest in the town itself, I planned to do a whistle stop tour, following the route of the circuit, before heading down to Bordeaux. At least, that had been my intention.
As I follow signs for the Circuit des 24H du Mans, I stop to fuel up. As I come to a stop, I hear that, for once, my bike is far from the loudest vehicle around. From the petrol station, even with earplugs and a helmet on, I can easily hear the distinctive sound of Le Mans Prototypes hammering around the circuit at full chat over a kilometre away. I fill up as quickly as I can, and hop straight back on the bike, heading to the circuit to investigate.
Trying to blend in
It turns out that by pure good fortune, I had happened to turn up on the one single mandatory test day before the races commenced. The only problem being that while I could most certainly hear the cars, bar a few tantalising glimpses in the gaps between fences, there was nowhere to actually watch the action without paying the entry fee. This being a trip on a budget, I determine to find the cheap seats.
Relying on my extensive knowledge of the circuit gleaned entirely from Gran Turismo 4, following the circuit down past the pit straight to the Porsche Curves, I find the perfect spot. At the base of the bridge under the Curves, I spot a gate that had been left ajar, and carpe’d the diem, jumping off the bike and not daring to look back in case the marshals object to my second trespass of the day.
Sneaky sneaky
From my vantage point, I am about two metres from the cars passing through the esses at over 120 mph. Between this and a hospitality ticket in a box over the pit straight, I know which I would choose.
What I'm here for
As well as the LMP cars of Nissan, Porsche, Audi et al, the highlights are the brutally guttural V8 Vantages and the howling Ferrari 458s. But top marks go to the utterly hinged Corvettes, which cause severe discomfort every time they pass, and genuine pain after just five minutes. Accordingly, I stay for ninety minutes, wide-eyed, ears bleeding and loving every minute.
V8, V8, flat six
Eventually, I drag myself away with a great deal of reluctance, after a small amount of my best loud, ignorant Brit Abroad impression to buy myself with the marshal who had justifiably asked that I don’t actually stick my phone over the barriers to get a good shot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--zO-F1A_OA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_-2VUrj3-A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV_nhk8hNP4
Suitably energised, I head towards Tours for a long overdue lunch. I set up camp outside the brasserie on the beautiful Place Jean Jaurès, looking onto the Hôtel de Ville and Palais de Justice. It’s my first proper meal of the trip and a welcome reminder of just how good proper food is. I vow to allow myself one warm meal of the day. After all, it is meant to be some sort of a holiday.
Town hall and court
After a leisurely hour of eating and route planning, I wander around the city centre, taking in the breathtaking 19<sup>th</sup> century architecture.
It is at this point, in full bike gear, that I realise just how warm it has become over the last day. Even just a few hundred miles south of Paris makes all the difference. It’s going to be warm from here on in, and this is just the start.
They are starting to all look the same, but still stunning
After a quick visit to the cathedral, again, beautiful, it’s back on the bike, direction Bordeaux.
I head via Poitiers, but it looks crap, so I don’t stop.
As I blast past Cognac, the sun is out, the roads are almost empty, and I make great progress on a memorable evening of fast riding, pushing all known envelopes on glorious open, smooth, sweeping roads, all the way up to Pons, an incredibly historic walled hilltop town.
Try as I might, it’s hard to arrive quietly in Pons. As you snake your way up round and round to the top of the hill, you are surrounded on the one side by houses, and on the other by a sheer rock face. People hear you coming. A long way away. Rather embarrassing when everybody else is just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday evening.
Eventually, I get to the top of the town, just as the sun is starting to set on a beautiful sight - there is an old keep on the edge of the town square, overlooking the neighbouring countryside. Quite a view to behold. Especially with the sublime Ferrari 456 glinting in the sun.
What a view. Not sure about the translation.
I would have loved to have stayed longer in Pons, but alas, time is ticking, and I have learned from my past mistakes. After soaking up the atmosphere and vitamin D, I follow the path of the Gironde down to Montendre, just north of Bordeaux.
Eventually, I find the campsite, which I had actually managed to research in advance. I am welcomed by a decidedly English sounding host. Ah, everyone is English. Not very authentic. And when I enquire about cost, the bloke behind the reception/bar/restaurant takes his time before unashamedly plucking a figure out of thin air and demanding a fee €25 for the night. For a patch of grass and cold shower. Does he not know that this is a budget trip!? Incredulous, I at least manage to haggle and get a free pint out of the (not so) bargain.
Out for the count after a hard afternoon’s ride, I sleep soundly, all the better for knowing that this time, at least, I am not trespassing.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Tuesday 24th January 23:58
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:11
Again, thank you for the kind words and patience.
Was my last post really in January? Dear lord. Apologies. You'd be surprised how long decent posts take.
Following hot on the heels of the last one, this one's a bit boring but it gets better (I think).
Day 5
Waking up to blazing sunshine, you can really feel the difference in temperature as you head south. Before leaving the campsite, the English bloke who overcharged me the night before clearly has a change of heart and returns €10 to me, saying that he realised that he had overcharged me. You don’t say. But a welcome refund nonetheless! My lamentable ‘dinner’ of tinned mackerel, kidney beans and baguette the night before clearly pulled his heart strings.
Lazy morning
After a lazy morning enjoying the sun, I head down to Bordeaux. It’s a maze to get into from the north, so I take the scenic route and end up coming in via the expansive industrial port. It’s always good to see a different side to the city!
Priority number one is sorting out my front tyre. The piece of metal that was in my tyre on Day 0 is still stubbornly clinging on and is now making itself more and more apparent. Perhaps it’s time to get it looked at.
Happily, I manage to hunt out a bike shop on the industrial estate. Even more happily, the helpful guy in the shop manages to get the metal out without it losing air, and won’t even take money for it. Happy days. Lucky escape.
Heading into central Bordeaux is a trip down memory lane. It’s the first time I’ve been back since I spent two weeks there in 2011, and it hasn’t changed.
After a quick lunch of fish pie and my old favourite of diabolo menthe in the café by Place Jean Jaurès, I head south, aiming for Spain.
As you head towards the Pyrenees, it’s a liberating ride through the winding roads pinewoods of Gascogne Ragional Natural Park, typical of the Gironde region. The roads are smooth, well-sighted and empty. And nothing but pinewoods as far as the eye can see. No police cars, no traffic, just empty roads. Five days in, I’m starting to get into my groove.
Shame about the other drivers. That evening, as the sun is starting to set, I settle in behind a caravan, itself following a car which is making especially slow progress on a particularly twisty section of road. As the road ahead opens up, I check behind me, indicate and move out to overtake. Just as I am halfway along the length of the caravan, the caravanist decides that he too wants to overtake at that very moment and occupy the same piece of tarmac as me, despite having a very loud and very visible bike in his mirrors. Cue a bit of a brown trouser moment. Mutual gesticulation indicates that we each hold the other to blame. I’m not entirely sure where I’m meant to have gone wrong, but never mind.
Eventually, as the sun starts to set, I decide to call it a night around Labenne, and set off in search of a campsite. They all seem to be full of guests and full of water parks. Not really what I am looking for. Eventually, I head south towards Bayonne and find a quiet campsite that has capacity. A quick walk down to the beach turns into a four mile round trek as I steadily realise that the arrow-straight road towards the sand dunes makes the sea look deceptively close.
Dinner is again the tediously familiar staple of a ham and laughing cow baguette – eaten while watching the sun set. Quick swim in the very, very rough sea (surprisingly warm) later and it’s time for bed, with the only sound the incessant humming of mosquitoes trying to join me in my tent. Not much time for sleep though, I need to make up time tomorrow.
Was my last post really in January? Dear lord. Apologies. You'd be surprised how long decent posts take.
Following hot on the heels of the last one, this one's a bit boring but it gets better (I think).
Day 5
Waking up to blazing sunshine, you can really feel the difference in temperature as you head south. Before leaving the campsite, the English bloke who overcharged me the night before clearly has a change of heart and returns €10 to me, saying that he realised that he had overcharged me. You don’t say. But a welcome refund nonetheless! My lamentable ‘dinner’ of tinned mackerel, kidney beans and baguette the night before clearly pulled his heart strings.
Lazy morning
After a lazy morning enjoying the sun, I head down to Bordeaux. It’s a maze to get into from the north, so I take the scenic route and end up coming in via the expansive industrial port. It’s always good to see a different side to the city!
Priority number one is sorting out my front tyre. The piece of metal that was in my tyre on Day 0 is still stubbornly clinging on and is now making itself more and more apparent. Perhaps it’s time to get it looked at.
Happily, I manage to hunt out a bike shop on the industrial estate. Even more happily, the helpful guy in the shop manages to get the metal out without it losing air, and won’t even take money for it. Happy days. Lucky escape.
Heading into central Bordeaux is a trip down memory lane. It’s the first time I’ve been back since I spent two weeks there in 2011, and it hasn’t changed.
After a quick lunch of fish pie and my old favourite of diabolo menthe in the café by Place Jean Jaurès, I head south, aiming for Spain.
As you head towards the Pyrenees, it’s a liberating ride through the winding roads pinewoods of Gascogne Ragional Natural Park, typical of the Gironde region. The roads are smooth, well-sighted and empty. And nothing but pinewoods as far as the eye can see. No police cars, no traffic, just empty roads. Five days in, I’m starting to get into my groove.
Shame about the other drivers. That evening, as the sun is starting to set, I settle in behind a caravan, itself following a car which is making especially slow progress on a particularly twisty section of road. As the road ahead opens up, I check behind me, indicate and move out to overtake. Just as I am halfway along the length of the caravan, the caravanist decides that he too wants to overtake at that very moment and occupy the same piece of tarmac as me, despite having a very loud and very visible bike in his mirrors. Cue a bit of a brown trouser moment. Mutual gesticulation indicates that we each hold the other to blame. I’m not entirely sure where I’m meant to have gone wrong, but never mind.
Eventually, as the sun starts to set, I decide to call it a night around Labenne, and set off in search of a campsite. They all seem to be full of guests and full of water parks. Not really what I am looking for. Eventually, I head south towards Bayonne and find a quiet campsite that has capacity. A quick walk down to the beach turns into a four mile round trek as I steadily realise that the arrow-straight road towards the sand dunes makes the sea look deceptively close.
Dinner is again the tediously familiar staple of a ham and laughing cow baguette – eaten while watching the sun set. Quick swim in the very, very rough sea (surprisingly warm) later and it’s time for bed, with the only sound the incessant humming of mosquitoes trying to join me in my tent. Not much time for sleep though, I need to make up time tomorrow.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:10
Since you asked...
Day 6
Conscious that I need to be in Lisbon tomorrow for a planned week-long stay, I rise and hit the road early.
First stop is Bayonne. It’s a great little town with an interesting mix of architecture set alongside the river, but I quickly pass on through to Biarritz, which is a stereotypical French seaside town.
Bayonne
Biarritz is almost a mini Monaco, just slightly more grounded, with an air of authentic elegance that Monaco lacks. I ride up to the top of the hill to the north of the main bay, overlooking the whole town.
Biarritz
After a nice chat with a Frenchwoman curious as to what I am doing on my bike so far from home, and a quick pit stop in a Carrefour for supplies and a car park baguette lunch, I carry on across the border into Spain.
France
Spain
It seems significant to be crossing a Schengen border on the day that the UK goes to the polls to vote on its membership of the EU. Crossing over into Irun, in the most apolitical way, you really can see how membership of the EU means something entirely different to those on the continent. I must have seen over 10 nationalities of cars in a two mile stretch near the border. I suppose that is to be expected when you are not separated from everyone else by 20 miles of sea.
From there I bear west towards San Sebastian, then Bilbao. By this stage however, it is 35 degrees and riding around the city centre at walking pace in my black jacket, jeans and helmet is akin to torture. I stop in and have a quick look around the area by the Guggenheim Museum and have a drink, but I need to keep moving and keep up the pace to get to Lisbon on time, as planned. It’s a shame, as I would have liked to have spent longer in Bilbao. But then the point of the trip, aside from riding good roads, is to see and explore all the different areas in Europe so that I know which ones to come back to and enjoy properly. Bilbao is definitely on the list.
Guggenheiming
Next, it’s south-south west towards the Picos d’Europa, to spend less than half a day in a region you could easily spend a week exploring!
Passing through towns in the middle of nowhere on the way to the mountains, there’s always an old-timer sitting on a bench by the main road through the town, ready to stare out anybody who dares to cross through their patch. And then there are the kids in a town outside Reinosa, who hear me coming at speed down the dead straight road towards their town and egg me on to go even faster. They love bikes in Spain.
Bag falling off bike. Don't care. View too nice.
It’s interesting to note the difference between Spanish and French drivers’ reactions to bikes. In France they virtually leap out of your way to let you by, as long as they are in a French make of car, for some reason. French in German cars seem to be the worst - actively hostile towards all other road users. Whereas the Spanish all seem to drive white SEATs and couldn’t give a damn about what is around them. But at least they are consistent.
The roads leading up to the mountains are divine, by far the best I have ever ridden. Cutting through the valleys, it’s just switchback after switchback, smooth roads and amazing views. This trip just gets better and better.
Stop fracking
I catch up with a brace of English bikers on BMW GSs, and have a quick play before carrying on westwards and heading halfway up a Pico in the sunshine, not far from Reinosa.
Again, too many roads and too little time, so I take a quick break and take in the smells and sounds of the Picos – it’s almost Alpine in nature, with the sounds of cowbells echoing through the mountains. It’s like something out of a Swiss chocolate bar advert, yet I am in Spain. Not what I had expected!
Not Switzerland
After my pit stop, I head south in search of a campsite in which to bed down for the night. But no such luck. It is just miles and miles of protected land devoted to bull farms. There’s only the weediest piece of string demarking the reserve, but tempting though a free campsite is, funnily enough, the presence of bulls does do something to put me off spending the night there.
Continuing south as the evening marches on, passing to the west of Burgos, I get to just north of Valladolid before I really, really have to call it a day. The sun has now dropped far below the horizon and light is running out fast - properly fast in that uniquely summertime way where you go from full daylight to total night time in what feels like fifteen minutes. And I haven’t seen a campsite in the last 12 hours of riding. Not very promising.
Eventually, I hunt out a relatively isolated farm access track that heads off the main road into the middle of nowhere in a massive field full of ant holes and thistles. But, it looks like it leads nowhere and is out of the way. Perfect.
As the mosquitoes start to gather for dinner, I start to set up camp, trying to find a patch that is neither a) covered in thorns, nor b) covered in thousands upon thousands of enormous ants.
Well, you try pitching a tent on thistles and solid granite
Camp finally set up, I zip myself into the tent up to my neck, and stick my head out to the mosquito-ravaged skies and offer my face up for sacrifice in exchange for a view of the most amazingly clear and stark view of the stars that I have ever seen. Aside from a distant wind farm, there’s not a manmade light to be seen for miles around, and total silence except for the passing of cars on a distant road. Oh, and the unexplained bizarre sonar-like beep that keeps echoing loudly around the deserted hills with unsettling regularity, with no identifiable source. Very creepy.
Room with a view
Apart from that, it’s all gravy, and I put up with the mosquito/star show until I can take the bites no more, and head to bed so I can have an early night and once again, get up before anyone notices.
Day 6
Conscious that I need to be in Lisbon tomorrow for a planned week-long stay, I rise and hit the road early.
First stop is Bayonne. It’s a great little town with an interesting mix of architecture set alongside the river, but I quickly pass on through to Biarritz, which is a stereotypical French seaside town.
Bayonne
Biarritz is almost a mini Monaco, just slightly more grounded, with an air of authentic elegance that Monaco lacks. I ride up to the top of the hill to the north of the main bay, overlooking the whole town.
Biarritz
After a nice chat with a Frenchwoman curious as to what I am doing on my bike so far from home, and a quick pit stop in a Carrefour for supplies and a car park baguette lunch, I carry on across the border into Spain.
France
Spain
It seems significant to be crossing a Schengen border on the day that the UK goes to the polls to vote on its membership of the EU. Crossing over into Irun, in the most apolitical way, you really can see how membership of the EU means something entirely different to those on the continent. I must have seen over 10 nationalities of cars in a two mile stretch near the border. I suppose that is to be expected when you are not separated from everyone else by 20 miles of sea.
From there I bear west towards San Sebastian, then Bilbao. By this stage however, it is 35 degrees and riding around the city centre at walking pace in my black jacket, jeans and helmet is akin to torture. I stop in and have a quick look around the area by the Guggenheim Museum and have a drink, but I need to keep moving and keep up the pace to get to Lisbon on time, as planned. It’s a shame, as I would have liked to have spent longer in Bilbao. But then the point of the trip, aside from riding good roads, is to see and explore all the different areas in Europe so that I know which ones to come back to and enjoy properly. Bilbao is definitely on the list.
Guggenheiming
Next, it’s south-south west towards the Picos d’Europa, to spend less than half a day in a region you could easily spend a week exploring!
Passing through towns in the middle of nowhere on the way to the mountains, there’s always an old-timer sitting on a bench by the main road through the town, ready to stare out anybody who dares to cross through their patch. And then there are the kids in a town outside Reinosa, who hear me coming at speed down the dead straight road towards their town and egg me on to go even faster. They love bikes in Spain.
Bag falling off bike. Don't care. View too nice.
It’s interesting to note the difference between Spanish and French drivers’ reactions to bikes. In France they virtually leap out of your way to let you by, as long as they are in a French make of car, for some reason. French in German cars seem to be the worst - actively hostile towards all other road users. Whereas the Spanish all seem to drive white SEATs and couldn’t give a damn about what is around them. But at least they are consistent.
The roads leading up to the mountains are divine, by far the best I have ever ridden. Cutting through the valleys, it’s just switchback after switchback, smooth roads and amazing views. This trip just gets better and better.
Stop fracking
I catch up with a brace of English bikers on BMW GSs, and have a quick play before carrying on westwards and heading halfway up a Pico in the sunshine, not far from Reinosa.
Again, too many roads and too little time, so I take a quick break and take in the smells and sounds of the Picos – it’s almost Alpine in nature, with the sounds of cowbells echoing through the mountains. It’s like something out of a Swiss chocolate bar advert, yet I am in Spain. Not what I had expected!
Not Switzerland
After my pit stop, I head south in search of a campsite in which to bed down for the night. But no such luck. It is just miles and miles of protected land devoted to bull farms. There’s only the weediest piece of string demarking the reserve, but tempting though a free campsite is, funnily enough, the presence of bulls does do something to put me off spending the night there.
Continuing south as the evening marches on, passing to the west of Burgos, I get to just north of Valladolid before I really, really have to call it a day. The sun has now dropped far below the horizon and light is running out fast - properly fast in that uniquely summertime way where you go from full daylight to total night time in what feels like fifteen minutes. And I haven’t seen a campsite in the last 12 hours of riding. Not very promising.
Eventually, I hunt out a relatively isolated farm access track that heads off the main road into the middle of nowhere in a massive field full of ant holes and thistles. But, it looks like it leads nowhere and is out of the way. Perfect.
As the mosquitoes start to gather for dinner, I start to set up camp, trying to find a patch that is neither a) covered in thorns, nor b) covered in thousands upon thousands of enormous ants.
Well, you try pitching a tent on thistles and solid granite
Camp finally set up, I zip myself into the tent up to my neck, and stick my head out to the mosquito-ravaged skies and offer my face up for sacrifice in exchange for a view of the most amazingly clear and stark view of the stars that I have ever seen. Aside from a distant wind farm, there’s not a manmade light to be seen for miles around, and total silence except for the passing of cars on a distant road. Oh, and the unexplained bizarre sonar-like beep that keeps echoing loudly around the deserted hills with unsettling regularity, with no identifiable source. Very creepy.
Room with a view
Apart from that, it’s all gravy, and I put up with the mosquito/star show until I can take the bites no more, and head to bed so I can have an early night and once again, get up before anyone notices.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Thursday 4th May 10:33
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:09
Day 7
It’s another morning in paradise. Solid blue skies, and already warm at 7:00.
Suddenly feeling far more exposed in daylight despite my relatively camouflaged tent, I rush to pack up camp before a farmer comes along with a shotgun.
Not a bad view to wake up to
Literally the moment that I put the last bag on the bike, I notice a 4x4 approaching in the distance. Bugger. Of course. In the middle of nowhere where the nearest road, half a mile away, has no more than ten cars passing every hour. And there’s a 4x4 coming straight towards me.
Fortunately, it’s not a farmer with a shotgun, but unfortunately, it is the police. They pull up alongside the bike as I busy myself with the suddenly all-consuming task of sorting my bags and dare not look up. They don’t move. Resigned to my fate, I look up with the most innocent smile you have ever seen.
“Holaaa”
“Did you camp here?” they ask in Spanish.
“Sorry, English”.
Noting my UK numberplate, they ask again in decent English. Ah.
I look to where he has pointed, at the distinctly flattened patch of grass where a tent had clearly been pitched just a moment earlier.
“I am packing my luggage” I reply. Not a lie.
“Last night, did you camp here?”
The net feels like it is closing. Stick to the story. “I am just sorting out my bags”, I reply, truthfully.
“Hmm...” comes the sceptical reply from the non-believer.
But, happily, the draw of their Ford Maverick’s air-conditioned interior is clearly too strong, or they just can’t be arsed, and they wish me well and continue to bumble along down the track. Phew.
Rejuvenated by my lucky start to the day, and having run out of water the night before, dying of thirst, I head back down to the main road, and onwards south, with no idea where I am.
A gentle lazy ride through some enormous wind farms and eventually I arrive in a small town, Ampudia.
First, I buy the petrol station’s entire stock of water, before noticing the castle overlooking the tower – the inventively named Castillo de Ampudia. Apparently dating from the 1460s, I am reliably informed by Wikipedia that this is the finest example of a Palentino castle going. It looked pretty cool. Who am I to disagree?
They like their windfarms
From that, I work out that I am just north of Valladolid and roughly on track.
Next, it’s on to Zamora, and towards the border with Portugal somewhere over the Duoro river. By midday, this is bordering on the hottest weather I have ever experienced. All the readings on thermometers start with a 4. Eventually I have to give up, and swap the leather jacket for a t shirt and jeans for shorts. This offers scant respite.
Out of scientific curiosity, I max the bike on a dead straight. Nope, even at that speed, I am still too hot. It’s no good. The only other difference apart from the blurriness of the scenery is that the bugs hurt a lot more than they do at 60.
Eventually I get to the border with Portugal – on the other side of the valley.
To get there, it’s a steep descent down the winding road to the valley floor, across the dividing Duoro river, and back up into Portugal.
The moment that I stopped to take this was possibly the hottest that I have ever been.
Portugal, from Spain
After a cheeky bit of freewheeling down the valley, you’re in Portugal, and instantly, what a difference. The roads are transformed, and for the third successive day, the best I have ever ridden. Race-track smooth and deserted, I push the bike harder and harder, trying to make up time to get to the pre-booked hostel in Lisbon on time to meet a friend.
Billiard table smooth
What it's all about
So long for now, Spain, it's been a pleasure
I make great progress, but eventually I have to admit defeat and for the first proper stint outside of the UK, join the dreaded motorway. 300km to do in an hour and a half.
It’s a long, long slog southwest, but I can’t see many speed cameras, and sitting at full throttle the entire time does take troublesome self-restraint out of the equation.
Chasing the setting sun, I eventually work my way into the city. Or at least, I think I do. Having faithfully followed all the signs to the Centro da cidade, I eventually end up outside the Sport Lisboa e Benfica football stadium. Seemingly on match night. Bugger.
Realising that I am in fact nowhere near the centre and utterly lost, I ask a taxi driver for directions. He answers the call to arms with exceptional generosity and utters the immortal words “Follow me”. Right you are.
Cue what can only be described as a scene from Ronin, as I faithfully follow his liberal interpretation of traffic laws, as he gives me a tail all the way right into the heart of the city. I just about keep up with his Skoda and he pulls up on the Avenida da Liberdade, refusing all offers of money, before heading off for his next fare. What. A. Legend.
After a bit of hunting around the cobbled streets, I eventually track down the hostel.
After all that, let’s just say I wasn’t as late as I should have been.
Time to start my week-long break in Lisbon and Sintra!
It’s another morning in paradise. Solid blue skies, and already warm at 7:00.
Suddenly feeling far more exposed in daylight despite my relatively camouflaged tent, I rush to pack up camp before a farmer comes along with a shotgun.
Not a bad view to wake up to
Literally the moment that I put the last bag on the bike, I notice a 4x4 approaching in the distance. Bugger. Of course. In the middle of nowhere where the nearest road, half a mile away, has no more than ten cars passing every hour. And there’s a 4x4 coming straight towards me.
Fortunately, it’s not a farmer with a shotgun, but unfortunately, it is the police. They pull up alongside the bike as I busy myself with the suddenly all-consuming task of sorting my bags and dare not look up. They don’t move. Resigned to my fate, I look up with the most innocent smile you have ever seen.
“Holaaa”
“Did you camp here?” they ask in Spanish.
“Sorry, English”.
Noting my UK numberplate, they ask again in decent English. Ah.
I look to where he has pointed, at the distinctly flattened patch of grass where a tent had clearly been pitched just a moment earlier.
“I am packing my luggage” I reply. Not a lie.
“Last night, did you camp here?”
The net feels like it is closing. Stick to the story. “I am just sorting out my bags”, I reply, truthfully.
“Hmm...” comes the sceptical reply from the non-believer.
But, happily, the draw of their Ford Maverick’s air-conditioned interior is clearly too strong, or they just can’t be arsed, and they wish me well and continue to bumble along down the track. Phew.
Rejuvenated by my lucky start to the day, and having run out of water the night before, dying of thirst, I head back down to the main road, and onwards south, with no idea where I am.
A gentle lazy ride through some enormous wind farms and eventually I arrive in a small town, Ampudia.
First, I buy the petrol station’s entire stock of water, before noticing the castle overlooking the tower – the inventively named Castillo de Ampudia. Apparently dating from the 1460s, I am reliably informed by Wikipedia that this is the finest example of a Palentino castle going. It looked pretty cool. Who am I to disagree?
They like their windfarms
From that, I work out that I am just north of Valladolid and roughly on track.
Next, it’s on to Zamora, and towards the border with Portugal somewhere over the Duoro river. By midday, this is bordering on the hottest weather I have ever experienced. All the readings on thermometers start with a 4. Eventually I have to give up, and swap the leather jacket for a t shirt and jeans for shorts. This offers scant respite.
Out of scientific curiosity, I max the bike on a dead straight. Nope, even at that speed, I am still too hot. It’s no good. The only other difference apart from the blurriness of the scenery is that the bugs hurt a lot more than they do at 60.
Eventually I get to the border with Portugal – on the other side of the valley.
To get there, it’s a steep descent down the winding road to the valley floor, across the dividing Duoro river, and back up into Portugal.
The moment that I stopped to take this was possibly the hottest that I have ever been.
Portugal, from Spain
After a cheeky bit of freewheeling down the valley, you’re in Portugal, and instantly, what a difference. The roads are transformed, and for the third successive day, the best I have ever ridden. Race-track smooth and deserted, I push the bike harder and harder, trying to make up time to get to the pre-booked hostel in Lisbon on time to meet a friend.
Billiard table smooth
What it's all about
So long for now, Spain, it's been a pleasure
I make great progress, but eventually I have to admit defeat and for the first proper stint outside of the UK, join the dreaded motorway. 300km to do in an hour and a half.
It’s a long, long slog southwest, but I can’t see many speed cameras, and sitting at full throttle the entire time does take troublesome self-restraint out of the equation.
Chasing the setting sun, I eventually work my way into the city. Or at least, I think I do. Having faithfully followed all the signs to the Centro da cidade, I eventually end up outside the Sport Lisboa e Benfica football stadium. Seemingly on match night. Bugger.
Realising that I am in fact nowhere near the centre and utterly lost, I ask a taxi driver for directions. He answers the call to arms with exceptional generosity and utters the immortal words “Follow me”. Right you are.
Cue what can only be described as a scene from Ronin, as I faithfully follow his liberal interpretation of traffic laws, as he gives me a tail all the way right into the heart of the city. I just about keep up with his Skoda and he pulls up on the Avenida da Liberdade, refusing all offers of money, before heading off for his next fare. What. A. Legend.
After a bit of hunting around the cobbled streets, I eventually track down the hostel.
After all that, let’s just say I wasn’t as late as I should have been.
Time to start my week-long break in Lisbon and Sintra!
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:07
I'll set myself the target of one post a fortnight starting in a fortnight. To be continued...........Right on cue. Apologies, there isn't much bikeyness to this next couple of posts, but bear with.
Day 8
It’s the simple things. After a week of lying on the floor in a damp and cramped tent, you really appreciate the simple luxury of a bed. Even if you are sharing the room with five strangers.
Waking up in the hostel in Lisbon is a welcome break from the previous seven days. After a proper (warm!) breakfast of bacon and pancakes, and not a Laughing Cow in sight, we plan the week ahead. We have two nights booked in the neighbouring town of Sintra, then five nights in Lisbon.
We decide to head straight to Sintra. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much more than a cursory glance at the luggage situation on my bike to confirm that asking it to take a pillion would be a touch too far. So, it’s a Top Gear style race of train against bike to Sintra. Except much less epic and with less poweeer.
Navigating Lisbon is far easier with the benefit of daylight, and it’s just a short scramble through the centre before you’re on the main road out to Sintra.
Arriving at the AirBnB is another pleasant surprise – it’s an annex to a small estate near the coast. I dump my bags and collect my fellow traveller, the bike having won by some half an hour. Natch. We find a spot to eat, and for the second time of the day, I enjoy the now rare luxury of warm food.
The only photo of the day. Trees.
After that, we head to the coast and take in the views of the cliffs towering over the Atlantic. The cold sea air is a stark change from the 40 degrees scorchio of the day before, but it’s nice to be able to relax and take it all in without one eye on the time.
Day 9
Next day, further revitalised, we head back into Sintra town to explore and climb the two overlooking castles. The first, the Castelo dos Miuros, is as the name suggests, a Moorish castle from the 8th Century, which played a big role in the reconquest of the Iberian peninsula and eventual expulsion of the Moors. Today, it is a tourist attraction. How times change.
The view rocks
Next up is the Pena Place, which couldn’t be more different. What started off as a monastery turned into the summer residence for Portuguese royals. Today, it is also a tourist attraction.
After that, we head to a beach. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t fantastic, and I experience the first rain since Calais. No matter, two people can still have a lot of fun on a beach.
Day 10
Today is the last day in Sintra, so we head to Cabo da Roca, which is the westernmost point of continental Europe. Properly windy, and you really feel like you are at the end of the world.
After that, it’s a reverse race back to Lisbon, this time staying in a hostel near the centre. Rated one of the best in Europe, check in starts with downing a shot, and it pretty much went downhill from there. We learn there’s a local festival on all weekend, and everyone from the hostel is going. In fact, so is the whole of Lisbon by the looks of it. The place is heaving. Tiny, narrow streets, utterly packed with people and whole families, all celebrating god knows what. And it’s great. What an atmosphere.
Unfortunately, I am unable to report accurately after this - my photos all came out blurred.
Day 8
It’s the simple things. After a week of lying on the floor in a damp and cramped tent, you really appreciate the simple luxury of a bed. Even if you are sharing the room with five strangers.
Waking up in the hostel in Lisbon is a welcome break from the previous seven days. After a proper (warm!) breakfast of bacon and pancakes, and not a Laughing Cow in sight, we plan the week ahead. We have two nights booked in the neighbouring town of Sintra, then five nights in Lisbon.
We decide to head straight to Sintra. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much more than a cursory glance at the luggage situation on my bike to confirm that asking it to take a pillion would be a touch too far. So, it’s a Top Gear style race of train against bike to Sintra. Except much less epic and with less poweeer.
Navigating Lisbon is far easier with the benefit of daylight, and it’s just a short scramble through the centre before you’re on the main road out to Sintra.
Arriving at the AirBnB is another pleasant surprise – it’s an annex to a small estate near the coast. I dump my bags and collect my fellow traveller, the bike having won by some half an hour. Natch. We find a spot to eat, and for the second time of the day, I enjoy the now rare luxury of warm food.
The only photo of the day. Trees.
After that, we head to the coast and take in the views of the cliffs towering over the Atlantic. The cold sea air is a stark change from the 40 degrees scorchio of the day before, but it’s nice to be able to relax and take it all in without one eye on the time.
Day 9
Next day, further revitalised, we head back into Sintra town to explore and climb the two overlooking castles. The first, the Castelo dos Miuros, is as the name suggests, a Moorish castle from the 8th Century, which played a big role in the reconquest of the Iberian peninsula and eventual expulsion of the Moors. Today, it is a tourist attraction. How times change.
The view rocks
Next up is the Pena Place, which couldn’t be more different. What started off as a monastery turned into the summer residence for Portuguese royals. Today, it is also a tourist attraction.
After that, we head to a beach. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t fantastic, and I experience the first rain since Calais. No matter, two people can still have a lot of fun on a beach.
Day 10
Today is the last day in Sintra, so we head to Cabo da Roca, which is the westernmost point of continental Europe. Properly windy, and you really feel like you are at the end of the world.
After that, it’s a reverse race back to Lisbon, this time staying in a hostel near the centre. Rated one of the best in Europe, check in starts with downing a shot, and it pretty much went downhill from there. We learn there’s a local festival on all weekend, and everyone from the hostel is going. In fact, so is the whole of Lisbon by the looks of it. The place is heaving. Tiny, narrow streets, utterly packed with people and whole families, all celebrating god knows what. And it’s great. What an atmosphere.
Unfortunately, I am unable to report accurately after this - my photos all came out blurred.
Minimal polar bears, guaranteed.
If you remember from my last post, which I only posted two years ago, I spent a week in Lisbon with a friend part way through my trip. This is just a brief description of that week for the sake of completeness, but I get back to the actual riding in the next post. Not sure what you mean by 'won bike' - are you talking in Trainspotting lingo?
Hopefully this blog doesn't get s
t towards the end like Lost, although it is probably already just as drawn out.
If you remember from my last post, which I only posted two years ago, I spent a week in Lisbon with a friend part way through my trip. This is just a brief description of that week for the sake of completeness, but I get back to the actual riding in the next post. Not sure what you mean by 'won bike' - are you talking in Trainspotting lingo?
Hopefully this blog doesn't get s
t towards the end like Lost, although it is probably already just as drawn out.Day 11
After a slower start than normal, perhaps due to the night before, we set out exploring Lisbon in the cold light of day. Albeit it's actually 40 degrees. Hopping from one area of shade to the next, we start by making our way out of the centre, towards the cooler sea breeze.
First stop is the Ponte 25 de Abril. Think San Fran Golden Gate bridge and you're not far off.
It's a pretty awe-inspiring piece of engineering up close, especially with the roar of traffic overhead.
Walking further south west following the Tagus River out to the Atlantic, we take in the riverside buildings and eventually arrive at the Padrão dos Descobrimentos monument, dedicated to the Portuguese Age of Discovery.
Then it’s a pit stop at the famous Pastéis de Belém, an old, almost Victorian, style conservatory cafe selling pastel de nata; custard tarts. Yum. The only downside is that it’s a tourist hotspot, particularly with the kind taking photos of everything from the crockery to the fire escape.
Suitably overdosed on custard tarts, we head back to the hostel to get ready for another night at the festival.
More Ginjinha, more fuzzy memories. Nothing intelligible to report.
Day 12
Another gentle start, funnily enough. It’s a little cooler, so we make it our aim to see as much of central Lisbon as possible.
After a gentle walk through the centre, we take the classic trams up towards the Portuguese parliament.
Guards outnumbering tourists 5 to 1, it’s pretty secure.
Parliament
Not parliament
There’s some pretty interesting architecture in Lisbon, which combined with the narrow streets, give it a real old school feel.
After checking out the famous Santa Justa Lift, we climb out of the narrow streets up to the Castelo de São Jorge which overlooks the centre of the city, and we stop to take in the views and climb the castle walls.
After that, a quick bite to eat while night descends, and a little explore of the city, which is now comparatively dead following the end of the festival.
Day 13
The final day in Lisbon is spent eating more custard tarts, drinking more Ginjinha, before we head to the Museu Coleção Berardo modern art museum, and check out the Jerónimos Monastery. They’re right next to each other, and quite a contrast.
Then we call time on Lisbon, as my mate needs to get her 4am taxi to the airport, while I continue on my travels.
The end of my mini-break within a holiday – highly recommended!
After a slower start than normal, perhaps due to the night before, we set out exploring Lisbon in the cold light of day. Albeit it's actually 40 degrees. Hopping from one area of shade to the next, we start by making our way out of the centre, towards the cooler sea breeze.
First stop is the Ponte 25 de Abril. Think San Fran Golden Gate bridge and you're not far off.
It's a pretty awe-inspiring piece of engineering up close, especially with the roar of traffic overhead.
Walking further south west following the Tagus River out to the Atlantic, we take in the riverside buildings and eventually arrive at the Padrão dos Descobrimentos monument, dedicated to the Portuguese Age of Discovery.
Then it’s a pit stop at the famous Pastéis de Belém, an old, almost Victorian, style conservatory cafe selling pastel de nata; custard tarts. Yum. The only downside is that it’s a tourist hotspot, particularly with the kind taking photos of everything from the crockery to the fire escape.
Suitably overdosed on custard tarts, we head back to the hostel to get ready for another night at the festival.
More Ginjinha, more fuzzy memories. Nothing intelligible to report.
Day 12
Another gentle start, funnily enough. It’s a little cooler, so we make it our aim to see as much of central Lisbon as possible.
After a gentle walk through the centre, we take the classic trams up towards the Portuguese parliament.
Guards outnumbering tourists 5 to 1, it’s pretty secure.
Parliament
Not parliament
There’s some pretty interesting architecture in Lisbon, which combined with the narrow streets, give it a real old school feel.
After checking out the famous Santa Justa Lift, we climb out of the narrow streets up to the Castelo de São Jorge which overlooks the centre of the city, and we stop to take in the views and climb the castle walls.
After that, a quick bite to eat while night descends, and a little explore of the city, which is now comparatively dead following the end of the festival.
Day 13
The final day in Lisbon is spent eating more custard tarts, drinking more Ginjinha, before we head to the Museu Coleção Berardo modern art museum, and check out the Jerónimos Monastery. They’re right next to each other, and quite a contrast.
Then we call time on Lisbon, as my mate needs to get her 4am taxi to the airport, while I continue on my travels.
The end of my mini-break within a holiday – highly recommended!
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:06
Day 14
Right, back to being a solo traveller.
After a quick final trip round Lisbon to see a few more sights and the customary faffing with luggage, it’s time to hit the road, Jack.
Having taken the time to plan my route for the day with my trusty AA road atlas, I head east, aiming for Madrid. The only problem being, after my further exploring of Lisbon and faffage, it’s already mid-afternoon and Madrid is some 400 miles away. And I’m not using motorways. God loves a trier! At least I have finally nailed my technique with securing the luggage.
Getting straight back into the groove, it’s another great ride carving my way through first Portuguese, then Spanish hills. And enjoying the dead straight, err... straights. Which cut straight through the endless bull farms, rivers and dusty hills that seem exclusively to make up this part of the world.
It’s also a relief to be back in Spain, after the slightly erratic and chaotic driving of the Portuguese. Nevertheless, I am safely over the border.
I definitely didn’t max it down here, oh noo...
Great place for a quick pit stop
You may notice that the sun is setting. And it’s setting quite quickly. And Madrid is still quite a long way away. As usual then, dear reader, you won’t be surprised to learn that I don’t make it to the destination. Once again, the road atlas shrinks things considerably, and the journey is twice as long as it looks. And I’ve taken the wiggly route.
No problem however, I’ll just find somewhere to sleep, then rise early to make up some time.
I settle for a campsite forty miles east of the Portuguese border, just outside Cáceres. Except it isn’t a campsite. It’s another farmer’s track. Because, once again, there are no campsites anywhere to be found and I didn’t see one for the entire four hour ride. Perhaps I should have researched in advance.
On the bright side, I have the farmer’s track all to myself and it’s free! I pick the executive suite, namely the flattest of all of the available slabs of granite and with the fewest ants covering it. Now a veteran of rough camping, I also know that it’s important to pick a spot with good visibility, so you minimise the chance of being run over by a farmer drunk on Ginjinha.
Check out how desperate I was, to pick this track as my place for the night:
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@39.5993579,-6.63153...
Again, I am forced to build my tent by torchlight, but eventually, as night really starts to fall, I am forced to do away with the torch. I’ve just spotted the lights of a house, unsighted from the main road but only 200m away, and I really can’t be bothered with the hassle of being challenged. So I carry on, trying to pitch my tent on solid granite without a hammer, while being eaten by ants. I miss the hostel’s bed.
But then I get into my tent and take in the front row seat of the stars.
Maybe I don't miss the bed after all.
Right, back to being a solo traveller.
After a quick final trip round Lisbon to see a few more sights and the customary faffing with luggage, it’s time to hit the road, Jack.
Having taken the time to plan my route for the day with my trusty AA road atlas, I head east, aiming for Madrid. The only problem being, after my further exploring of Lisbon and faffage, it’s already mid-afternoon and Madrid is some 400 miles away. And I’m not using motorways. God loves a trier! At least I have finally nailed my technique with securing the luggage.
Getting straight back into the groove, it’s another great ride carving my way through first Portuguese, then Spanish hills. And enjoying the dead straight, err... straights. Which cut straight through the endless bull farms, rivers and dusty hills that seem exclusively to make up this part of the world.
It’s also a relief to be back in Spain, after the slightly erratic and chaotic driving of the Portuguese. Nevertheless, I am safely over the border.
I definitely didn’t max it down here, oh noo...
Great place for a quick pit stop
You may notice that the sun is setting. And it’s setting quite quickly. And Madrid is still quite a long way away. As usual then, dear reader, you won’t be surprised to learn that I don’t make it to the destination. Once again, the road atlas shrinks things considerably, and the journey is twice as long as it looks. And I’ve taken the wiggly route.
No problem however, I’ll just find somewhere to sleep, then rise early to make up some time.
I settle for a campsite forty miles east of the Portuguese border, just outside Cáceres. Except it isn’t a campsite. It’s another farmer’s track. Because, once again, there are no campsites anywhere to be found and I didn’t see one for the entire four hour ride. Perhaps I should have researched in advance.
On the bright side, I have the farmer’s track all to myself and it’s free! I pick the executive suite, namely the flattest of all of the available slabs of granite and with the fewest ants covering it. Now a veteran of rough camping, I also know that it’s important to pick a spot with good visibility, so you minimise the chance of being run over by a farmer drunk on Ginjinha.
Check out how desperate I was, to pick this track as my place for the night:
https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@39.5993579,-6.63153...
Again, I am forced to build my tent by torchlight, but eventually, as night really starts to fall, I am forced to do away with the torch. I’ve just spotted the lights of a house, unsighted from the main road but only 200m away, and I really can’t be bothered with the hassle of being challenged. So I carry on, trying to pitch my tent on solid granite without a hammer, while being eaten by ants. I miss the hostel’s bed.
But then I get into my tent and take in the front row seat of the stars.
Maybe I don't miss the bed after all.
Thank you for the kind words and with apologies for the delay...
Day 15
Morning has broken, and so has my back. Who’da thunk sleeping on granite wasn’t a great idea?
Before sunrise
Sunrise
I rise early at ten to six for two reasons. One, because sleeping on granite has become impossible, and two, because I am worried about being run over by a pished farmer in his tractor.
However, being in sync with nature does have its advantages and it does give you that smug feeling of satisfaction, knowing that everyone else is still tucked up in bed, while you have the roads yourself. You can make a lot of progress on the empty roads in the morning, even if it is soon rural Spain’s version of rush hour - where you pass two cars an hour rather than one.
That Spanish bull thing that everyone has a sticker of on their cars
Today’s aim is Madrid, so I am taking in the Sierra de Gredos north east of Plasencia. Unfortunately, the weather stays damp and cold most of the way, but there is still ample opportunity for fun as the roads slowly dry out.
A typical landscape round these parts
The bike is starting to look a little crusty. Is that rear tyre looking a little worn?
Purely by accident, following the N-110 out of Plasencia, I stumble upon what turns out to be the ancient walled town of Avila. Desperately in need of warming up after five hours riding in the wet and single digit temperatures, I stop for an inauthentic lunch in a café chain, buying the hottest food I can find; a wholly underwhelming pizza. But at least I now have an excuse to explore the town.
It’s a pretty cool old town, built on a hill and dominating the surrounding area. There’s not a lot going on, but it’s jam-packed with buildings crammed in right up to the town walls – no room for expansion here.
Now warmed up, I head on towards Madrid, via Scotland.
This place really was more Scottish than Scotland. The temperature, the wind, the winding roads, the windy roads, the lack of traffic, the landscape; all unmistakably Scottish. If I had been dropped there out of a plane, and if I survived the fall, if it wasn’t for the slight ruddiness to the soil I would have sworn I was in the Highlands. It was a real surprise to experience this kind of landscape in Spain.
Scotland
You can just make out the Loch in the background
More Scotland
More Scotland
After leaving Scotland, I arrive back in Spain.
Then, after hours of riding through relative emptiness, I round a bend to be faced with THIS.
One of the most dominating buildings I have ever seen, it turns out it’s the monastery of San Lorenze de El Escorial. It’s bloody enormous. The Spanish like a bit of pomp. Naturally, it required closer inspection.
Stumbling across places like this is what makes travelling by bike without satnav so much fun. Everything is a surprise – good and bad!
I take a quick look round but, despite the blue skies in the pictures, don’t be fooled, moments later, there was another biblical rainstorm.
Interest in the palace suddenly somewhat diminished, I head back on the bike towards Madrid, perfectly following the same path of the rainstorm.
After a few front end slides, I realise that the tyres aren’t quite coping with the rain as well as I thought, so I hunker down behind the screen for the short slog to Madrid. Note to self: Southern European roads have naff all grip in the wet.
After some “inefficient routing” but absolutely not getting lost, I find the centre of the city and instantly love it. I had been intending to just pass through Madrid on my way up to the Pyrenees, but straight away I love the vibe and decide to book in to a hostel for the night to do the city justice and explore. At least I have, for once, made the intended destination of the day.
Following a quick look round to get my bearings, I head back to the hostel and give in to their offer of a three course meal and unlimited sangria for €10. This turns into a “pre” drinks session – I lose count after the 18th glass of sangria - not that they will be “pre” anything for me – I need an early night. I exchange travel anecdotes with the other yoofs, mostly Aussies on year-long tours, who make my trip look like a trip to the shops. One couple have done nearly every single country in Europe by bus (no thanks!) and have been travelling since January, and an American girl who is part way round Europe on her summer break.
With a heavy head I get ready for bed, just as all the others get ready for a night out. I am sorely tempted to join, but after three hours’ sleep on granite the night before, the allure of a soft mattress, in a dorm with six snoring people, is too great to pass up.
Day 15
Morning has broken, and so has my back. Who’da thunk sleeping on granite wasn’t a great idea?
Before sunrise
Sunrise
I rise early at ten to six for two reasons. One, because sleeping on granite has become impossible, and two, because I am worried about being run over by a pished farmer in his tractor.
However, being in sync with nature does have its advantages and it does give you that smug feeling of satisfaction, knowing that everyone else is still tucked up in bed, while you have the roads yourself. You can make a lot of progress on the empty roads in the morning, even if it is soon rural Spain’s version of rush hour - where you pass two cars an hour rather than one.
That Spanish bull thing that everyone has a sticker of on their cars
Today’s aim is Madrid, so I am taking in the Sierra de Gredos north east of Plasencia. Unfortunately, the weather stays damp and cold most of the way, but there is still ample opportunity for fun as the roads slowly dry out.
A typical landscape round these parts
The bike is starting to look a little crusty. Is that rear tyre looking a little worn?
Purely by accident, following the N-110 out of Plasencia, I stumble upon what turns out to be the ancient walled town of Avila. Desperately in need of warming up after five hours riding in the wet and single digit temperatures, I stop for an inauthentic lunch in a café chain, buying the hottest food I can find; a wholly underwhelming pizza. But at least I now have an excuse to explore the town.
It’s a pretty cool old town, built on a hill and dominating the surrounding area. There’s not a lot going on, but it’s jam-packed with buildings crammed in right up to the town walls – no room for expansion here.
Now warmed up, I head on towards Madrid, via Scotland.
This place really was more Scottish than Scotland. The temperature, the wind, the winding roads, the windy roads, the lack of traffic, the landscape; all unmistakably Scottish. If I had been dropped there out of a plane, and if I survived the fall, if it wasn’t for the slight ruddiness to the soil I would have sworn I was in the Highlands. It was a real surprise to experience this kind of landscape in Spain.
Scotland
You can just make out the Loch in the background
More Scotland
More Scotland
After leaving Scotland, I arrive back in Spain.
Then, after hours of riding through relative emptiness, I round a bend to be faced with THIS.
One of the most dominating buildings I have ever seen, it turns out it’s the monastery of San Lorenze de El Escorial. It’s bloody enormous. The Spanish like a bit of pomp. Naturally, it required closer inspection.
Stumbling across places like this is what makes travelling by bike without satnav so much fun. Everything is a surprise – good and bad!
I take a quick look round but, despite the blue skies in the pictures, don’t be fooled, moments later, there was another biblical rainstorm.
Interest in the palace suddenly somewhat diminished, I head back on the bike towards Madrid, perfectly following the same path of the rainstorm.
After a few front end slides, I realise that the tyres aren’t quite coping with the rain as well as I thought, so I hunker down behind the screen for the short slog to Madrid. Note to self: Southern European roads have naff all grip in the wet.
After some “inefficient routing” but absolutely not getting lost, I find the centre of the city and instantly love it. I had been intending to just pass through Madrid on my way up to the Pyrenees, but straight away I love the vibe and decide to book in to a hostel for the night to do the city justice and explore. At least I have, for once, made the intended destination of the day.
Following a quick look round to get my bearings, I head back to the hostel and give in to their offer of a three course meal and unlimited sangria for €10. This turns into a “pre” drinks session – I lose count after the 18th glass of sangria - not that they will be “pre” anything for me – I need an early night. I exchange travel anecdotes with the other yoofs, mostly Aussies on year-long tours, who make my trip look like a trip to the shops. One couple have done nearly every single country in Europe by bus (no thanks!) and have been travelling since January, and an American girl who is part way round Europe on her summer break.
With a heavy head I get ready for bed, just as all the others get ready for a night out. I am sorely tempted to join, but after three hours’ sleep on granite the night before, the allure of a soft mattress, in a dorm with six snoring people, is too great to pass up.
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